“I know not how it is; I cannot comprehend the feeling, with which many quit this noble country for ever for strange lands. And yet it may be said, that hundreds do it every day; and for thousands it may indeed be well. For those who have had no prospect but the daily struggle for existence; for those whose minds have not been opened and quickened into a sense of the higher and more spiritual enjoyments which this country affords; for the labouring many, the valleys of Australia or the vast forests and prairies of America may be alluring. But to me,—and therefore, it seems, equally to other men with like tastes and attachments—to quit England, noble, fearless, magnanimous, and Christian England, would be to cut asunder life, and hope, and happiness at once. No! till I voyage to ‘the better land,’ I could never quit England. What! after all the ages that have been spent in making it habitable, and home-like; after all the blood shed in its defence, and for the maintaining of its civil polity; after all the consumption of patriotic thought and enterprise, the labours of philosophers, divines, and statesmen, to civilize and Christianize it; after the time, the capital, the energies employed, from age to age, to cultivate its fields, dry up marshes, build bridges, and lay down roads, raise cities, and fill every house with the products of the arts and the wealth of literature; can there be a spot of earth that can pretend to a tithe of its advantages, or a spot that creates in the heart that higher tone necessary for their full enjoyment? Why, every spot of this island is sanctified, not only by the efforts of countless patriots, but as the birth-place and abode of men of genius. Go where you will, places present themselves to your eyes which are stamped with the memory of some one or other of those ‘burning and shining lights,’ that have illuminated the atmosphere of England with their collective splendour, and made it visible to the men of farthest climates. Even in this secluded district, which, beautiful as it is, is comparatively little known or spoken of, amongst the generality of English people, how many literary recollections surround you! To say nothing of the actors in great historical scenes; the Talbots, Shrewsburys, Dudleys, and Bagots of former ages; or the Ansons, Vernons, St. Vincents, and Pagets of the later and present ones; in this county were born those excellent bishops, Hurd and Newton, and the venerable antiquary and herald, Elias Ashmole. To say nothing of the amount of taste and knowledge that exist in the best classes of society hereabout, we have to-day passed the houses of Thomas Gisborne and Edward Cooper, clergymen who have done honour to their profession by their talents and the liberality of their sentiments. In that antiquated Fauld Hall, once lived old Squire Burton, the brother of the author of the ‘Anatomy of Melancholy;’ and there is little doubt that some part of that remarkable work was written there. By that Dove, Izaak Walton, that pious old man, that lover of the fields, and historian of the worthies of the church, used to stroll and meditate, or converse with his friend Charles Cotton, a Staffordshire man too. In the woods of Wotton, which are very visible hence by daylight, once wandered a very different, but very distinguished person, the wayward Rousseau. In Uttoxeter, that great, but ill-used, and ill-understood astronomer, Flamstead, received the greater part of his education; and from Lichfield, the spires of whose cathedral we have seen to-day, went out Johnson and Garrick, each to achieve supremacy in his own track of distinction. And there, too, lived Anna Seward, who, with all her egotism and faults of taste, was superior to the women of her age, and had the sagacity to perceive amongst the very first, the dawning fame of Southey and Sir Walter Scott.
“If this comparatively obscure district can thus boast of having given birth or abode to so many influential intellects, what shall not England—entire and glory-crowned England? And who shall not feel proud to own himself of its race and kindred; and, if he can secure for himself a moderate share of its common goods, be happy to live and die in it!”
Thus it is all England through. There is no part of it, in which you do not become aware that there some portion of our national glory has originated. The very coachmen as you traverse the highways, continually point out to you spots made sacred by men and their acts. There say they, was born, or lived, Milton or Shakspeare, Locke or Bacon, Pope or Dryden; that was the castle of Chaucer; there, now, lives Wordsworth, Southey, or Moore. There Queen Elizabeth was confined in her youth, here she confined Mary of Scotland in her age. There Wickliffe lived, and here his ashes were scattered in the air by his enemies. There Hooker watched his sheep while he pondered on his Ecclesiastical Polity. Here was born Cromwell, or Hampden—here was the favourite retreat of Chatham, Fox, Pitt, or other person, who in his day exerted a powerful influence on the mind or fortunes of this country. These perpetual monitions that we are walking in a land filled from end to end with glorious reminiscences, make country residence in England so delightful. But the testimony of foreigners is more conclusive than our own; and therefore, we will close this chapter with the impression which the entrance into England made on two Americans—Washington Irving and Mr. Willis. Irving’s mind was full of the inspiration of the character of England as he had found it in books. “There is to an American, a volume of associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with every thing of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the Channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass-plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighbouring hill—all were characteristic of England.” That is the feeling of an American, arriving here directly from his own country: this is that of one coming from the European Continent. Mr. Willis says, on landing at Dover: “My companion led the way to an hotel, and we were introduced by English waiters (I had not seen such a thing in three years, and it was quite like being waited on by gentlemen) to two blazing coal fires in the coffee-room of the ‘Ship.’ O, what a comfortable place it appeared! A rich Turkey carpet snugly fitted; nicely rubbed mahogany tables; the morning papers from London; bell-ropes that would ring the bell; doors that would shut; a landlady that spoke English, and was kind and civil; and, though there were eight or ten people in the room, no noise above the rustle of a newspaper, and positively rich red damask curtains, neither second-hand nor shabby, to the windows! A greater contrast than this, to the things that answer to them on the Continent, could scarcely be imagined. The fires were burning brilliantly, and the coffee-room was in the nicest order when we descended to our breakfast at six the next morning. The tea-kettle singing on the hearth, the toast was hot, and done to a turn, and the waiter was neither sleepy nor uncivil,—all, again, very unlike a morning at an hotel in La belle France. England is described always very justly, and always in the same words, ‘it is all one garden.’ There is scarce a cottage, between Dover and London (seventy miles) where a poet might not be happy to live. I saw a hundred little spots I coveted with quite a heart-ache. Everybody seemed employed, and everybody well-made and healthy. The relief from the deformity and disease of the way-side beggars of the Continent was very striking.”
It is through this England, thus worthy of our love, whether as seen by our own eyes, or the eyes of intelligent foreigners, that we are about to make our progress, visiting plain and mountain, farm and hamlet, and making acquaintance with the dwellings, habits, and feelings of both gentle and simple.
CHAPTER II.
ENVIABLE POSITION OF THE ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMAN, AS REGARDS ALL THE PLEASURES AND ADVANTAGES OF LIFE.
Alexander of Macedon said if he were not Alexander, he would choose to be Diogenes; Alexander of Russia also said if he were not Alexander, he would choose to be an English gentleman. And truly, it would require some ingenuity to discover any earthly lot like that of the English gentleman. The wealth and refinement at which this country has arrived, have thrown round English rural life every possible charm. Every art and energy is exerted in favour of the English gentleman. Look at the ancient castle, or the mansion of later ages, and then at the dwelling of the private gentleman now, and what a difference! The castle with its dungeon-like apartments, its few loop-holes for windows, its walls, mounds, moats, drawbridges, and other defences to keep out the hostile prowlers which a semi-savage state of society brought, ever and anon, around it. Look at its naked walls, its massy, lumbering doors, its floors spread with rushes, and the rude style in which bed and board were constructed and served; and then turn your eyes on the modern mansion of the country gentleman. What a lovely sight is that! What a bright and pleasant abode, instead of that heavy, martial pile! What a fair country—what a peaceful, well-ordered population surround it, instead of dreary forests, and savage hordes! And look again at the mansion of the feudal ages; see its large, cheerless, tapestried halls, its ill-fitting doors and windows, through which the wintry winds come whistling and careering. What naked, or rush-strewn floors still; what rude fashion of furniture, and vessels for the table; what a rude style of cookery; what a dearth of books; what a miserable and scanty display of portraits on the walls, making those they are intended to represent, look grim and hard as a generation of ogres. Then again, look at the modern mansion. What a snug and silken nest of delight is that. See what the progress of the arts and civilization has done for it. How light and airily it rises in some lovely spot. How it is carpeted, and draped with rich hangings and curtains. What soft and elegant beds; what a superior grace in the fashion of furniture, and all household utensils. Silver and gold, brass and steel, porcelain and glass, into what rich and beautiful shapes have they been wrought by skilful hands for all purposes. See what a variety of rooms; what a variety of inventions in those rooms, which artificial and refined wants have called into existence. What books enrich the fair library; what glorious paintings grace its delicately-papered walls. Hark! music is issuing from instruments of novel and most ingenious construction. And all around what a splendidly cultivated country! What lovely gardens, in which flowers from every region are blowing. Here is a vast change!—a vast advance from the rude life of our ancestors; and the more we look into the present state of domestic life, the more we shall perceive the admirable perfection of its economy and arrangements. What was the life of our great nobility formerly in their country halls? With little intercourse with the capital; in the midst of huge forests, and almost impassable roads; hunting and carousing were their chief pleasures and employments, amid a throng of rude retainers. Look now at the mode of life of a private gentleman of no extraordinary revenue. When he comes down in a morning, he finds on his breakfast-table the papers which left London probably on the previous evening, bringing him the news of the whole world. There is nothing which is going on in Parliament, in the courts of law, in public meetings in the capital, or in any town of the kingdom; no birth, marriage, death, or any occurrence of importance, but they are all laid before him; there is nothing done or said in the mercantile, the literary, the scientific world, nothing which can affect the interests of his country in the most remote degree; nothing, indeed, which can thoroughly affect the well-being of men all the world over, but there it is too. He sits in the midst of his woods and groves, in the quietness of the country a hundred miles from the capital, and is as well acquainted with the movements and incidents of society as a reigning prince could have been some years ago, by couriers, correspondents, spies, fast-sailing packets, and similar agencies, maintained by all the aid and revenues of a nation. And for his morning meal, China and the Indies, east and west, send him their tea, coffee, sugar, chocolate, and preserved fruits. Lapland sends its reindeer tongues; Westphalia its hams; and his own rich land abundance of rural dainties. When breakfast is over, if he ask himself how he shall pass the day, what numerous and inexhaustible resources present themselves to his choice. Will he have music? The ladies of his family can give it him, in a high style of excellence. Does he love paintings? His walls, and those of his wealthy neighbours, are covered with them. There are said to be more of the works of the great masters accumulated in our English houses than in all the world besides. Is he fond of books? What a mass of knowledge is piled up around him! Greece, Rome, Palestine, Arabia, India, France, Germany, Italy, every country, ancient or modern, which has distinguished itself by its genius and intelligence, has poured into his halls its accumulated wealth of heart and imagination. There is hoarded up in his library, food for the most insatiate spirit for an eternity. In the literature and science merely of this country, he possesses more than the enjoyment of a life. Think only of the works of our historians and divines, of our travellers,—our natural, moral, and scientific philosophers; of the wit, the pathos, the immense extent of inventions and facts in our general literature; of the glorious and ennobling themes of our great poets. What a mighty difference is there between the existence of one of our old baronial ancestors, who could not read, but as he sate over his winter fire solaced his spirit with the lays of a wandering minstrel; and of him who has at his command all the intellectual splendour, power and wit, the satire, the joyous story, the humour, the elegance of phrase and of mind, the profound sentiment and high argument of such men as Chaucer, Spenser, Ben Jonson, Shakspeare, Beaumont and Fletcher, Milton, Dryden, Addison, Steele, Pope, Sam Johnson, Goldsmith, Cowper, and the noble poets of the present day. Is it possible that ennui can come near a man who can at any moment call to his presence our Jeremy Taylors and Tillotsons, our Barrows, Burnets, and Stillingfleets—our travellers from every corner of the earth, and our great novelists with their everlasting inventions? Why, there is more delight in one good country library, than any one mortal life can consume. If a man’s house were situated in a desert of sand, the magic of this divine literature were enough to raise around him an elysium of perpetual greenness.
But it is not merely within doors that the singular privileges of an English gentleman lie. He need only step out, and he sees them surrounding him on every side. His gardens—by the labours and discoveries of centuries, by the genius of some men who have blended the spirit of nature most happily with that of art, and by the researches of others who have collected into this country the vegetable beauty and wealth of the whole world—have been made more delightful than those of Alcinous or Armida. Look at his glazed walls, his hot and green houses, which supply his table with the most delicious dessert. But go on—advance beyond the boundaries of his gardens, and the pleasant winding walks of his shrubberies, and where are you? In the midst of his park, his farms, his woods, and plantations. Now every one knows the healthful and perpetual recreation to be found in any one of these places; the intense delight which many of our country gentlemen take in them, and the beauty and pre-eminence of our English parks, farms, and woods, in consequence. We shall speak more particularly of them presently; but it must not here be forgotten what a boundless field of enjoyment, and increase of wealth, science has of late years opened to the amateur farmer, and to the country gentlemen in general. To their fields, agricultural chemistry, mineralogy, botany, vegetable physiology, entomology, etc., have brought new and inexhaustible charms. They have, in a manner, enlarged the territories of the smallest proprietor into kingdoms of boundless extent and interest. In the study of soils, their defects and remedies; in the selection of plants most consonant to the earth in which they are to grow, or the adaptation of the earth to them; in the inquiry into the mineral wealth that lies below the surface; in cultivating an acquaintance with the various animals, and especially insects, on whose presence or absence depends in a great degree the proper growth or destruction of crops and young woods: in all these the country gentleman has a source of noble and profitable employment for the main part unknown to his ancestors, and worthy of his most earnest pursuit.
But, if all these means of happiness were not enough to satisfy his desires, or did not chime in with his taste, see what another field of animating and praiseworthy endeavour lies before him still, in the official service of his country. Retaining his character of a country gentleman, he can accept the office of a magistrate, and become, if so disposed, a real benefactor and peacemaker to his neighbourhood. But he need not stop here. There is no country, not excepting British America, where the path of public service lies so open to a man of fortune, or is so wide in its reach. He can enter Parliament; and residing part of the year in the country, can during the other part take his place in an assembly, that for the importance of its discussions and acts has no fellow; for there is no other legislative assembly in the whole world where, with similar freedom of constitution, the same mighty mass of human interests is concerned—to which the same vast extent of influence is appended. I need do no more in proof of this, than merely point to the position of England amid the nations of the earth; her wealth and activity at home; her enormous territories abroad. Over all this,—over this extent of country, over these millions of beings, there is not a single country gentleman who has the ambition, but who may be called to exercise an influence. Here is a field of labour, enough of itself to fill the amplest desires, and by which, if he have the talent, any man of fortune may rise to the highest pitch of rank and distinction.
But if the country gentleman have not the ambition, or the love of so active a life; if he desire to enjoy himself in a different way, there is yet abundant choice. He may travel, if he please; and what a rich expanse of pleasures and interests lies before him in that direction. In our own islands there is a variety of scenery not to be rivalled in the same space in any other part of the world. The mountains, the lakes, the rivers of Wales, Scotland, Ireland, those of Cumberland and Derbyshire; the rich plains; the busy cities, with all their arts and curious manufactures; our ports, with all their interesting scenes; the various historical and antiquarian objects; the numerous breeds of cattle, sheep, and horses; the varied kinds of vegetable products, and modes of farming;—these, to a mind of any taste and intelligence, offer plentiful matter of observation in short summer excursions. And what splendid roads, fleet horses, convenient carriages, and excellent inns, are ready to convey him on the way, or receive him for refreshment. If he is disposed to go abroad, who has the money, or the education, to give facility and advantage to travel in every region like the English gentleman?—Such are the privileges and pleasures attendant on the country gentleman of England. In all these he has, or may have, the society of women whose beauty and intelligence are everywhere acknowledged; and for the ladies of England living in the country, there are books, music, the garden, the conservatory—an abundance of elegant and womanly occupations. There are drives through woods and fields of the most delicious character; there is social intercourse with neighbouring wealthy families, and a host of kind offices to poor ones, which present the sweetest sources of enjoyment.